


Green. Messy. Dangerous.

by Callie4180



Series: The Winter Garden (and associated magic) [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/F, F/M, Fandom Trumps Hate, Flashbacks, Florida, Gen, Magical Realism, or realistic magic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-01
Updated: 2020-01-22
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:15:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 12,854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22060537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Callie4180/pseuds/Callie4180
Summary: Mrs Hudson, avocados, and what happened in Florida, all those years ago.
Relationships: Mrs Hudson & Janine (Sherlock), Mrs Hudson/OFC, Sherlock Holmes & Mrs. Hudson
Series: The Winter Garden (and associated magic) [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1587826
Comments: 23
Kudos: 58
Collections: Fandom Trumps Hate 2019





	1. Janine Drops By

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Jantathra](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jantathra/gifts).

> This is for Jantathra, who bid on my services in this year's Fandom Trumps Hate auction. I apologize for this being so late in the decade, my dear, but I hope you enjoy. 
> 
> This fic is set in the Winter Garden universe. It will make sense for the most part if you haven't read that fic, but feel free to ask questions here or at callie4180 at gmail. 
> 
> This fic is about 80% complete as of first posting, and fully outlined. I'll be posting new chapters on Tuesdays and Fridays until done. 
> 
> Happy new year, my friends. Sherlock is playing his ode to the year that is passing in the garden right now. Flowers bloom, bees buzz. There's a dog now (that's another story), curled up on a warm bed on the patio, chin on her paws, watching him. John is beside her, one begloved hand resting soft on her head, eyes closed and listening intently to the story in the music. It's their story, he knows, and it's beautiful. They'll go inside soon, have a glass of brandy each next to the fire and then they'll go to bed together, each curling around the other as the music echoes through the halls, drifting lightly on the crisp, rose-scented air. Cheers.

Every time, Janine thought ruefully as she peeked out from the doorway of the Baker Street tube station. Every bloody time she came to London, it rained, and today was no exception. She sighed and tucked her hair into the collar of her coat, pulled her scarf a little tighter. A bus drove by, splashing water from a deep puddle up onto the pavement to land only centimetres from the toes of her boots. At least on a day like this, the bastard was likely to be home.

The bastard was not home. “Sorry, dear,” Mrs Hudson said, tsking up at the clouds before closing the door firmly against the wind. “But Sherlock’s in Sussex, isn’t he. At the cottage. I haven’t seen him but a day here and there since you gave it to him.”

“Oh.” Janine paused halfway through taking off her coat, uncertain of what to say. “I’m…” She cleared her throat. “I’m sorry, Mrs Hudson. I didn’t think. Anyway, I didn’t expect him to actually move out there, at least not for some time. It’s so rural. I thought he’d just—you know. Visit, now and again.”

Mrs Hudson waved off her concern. “It’s fine. If it wasn’t the cottage, it would be something else. You know how Sherlock is with a new thing. Like a dog with a bone, that one.” She smiled hopefully and nodded toward the door of her own flat. “Would you like to join me for a cup of tea? You might as well wait out the weather where it’s dry. Kettle’s just boiled.”

“Oh, thanks, but I probably shouldn’t,” Janine said, pulling her coat back up to her shoulders. “I’d best be running along. Kev’s just gone to visit his mother, and I’ll need to be pulling their hands from each other’s throats before too long.”

Mrs Hudson’s smile faded a few degrees. “I see. Well, suit yourself. I’ll let Sherlock know you came by next time we chat on the video. I doubt I’ll be seeing much of him in the flesh anytime soon, you know, what with John being up there now, and the mystery and all.”

Janine’s mind caught on the fact of John’s presence at the cottage, flipping quickly through the implications of  _ that, _ before processing the rest of what Mrs Hudson had said. “Mystery? They’ve got a case down there?” It wouldn’t be surprising if somebody had up and offed that prick with all the windchimes, she thought. They got quite a breeze in the village sometimes, and sound did carry.

“Oh heavens, no,” Mrs Hudson laughed. “Well, maybe. Trouble does tend to find those boys. No, I mean all that business with the garden and the bees and the honey.”

“The honey,” Janine repeated slowly, and turned to take a closer look. The light in the foyer was spotty, always had been, she remembered, but Mrs Hudson tipped her head toward the desk lamp, and…yes. There it was, the faint glow that came with the Winter Garden honey and its inexplicable magic.

“Damn,” Janine whispered, before she could think, but Mrs Hudson shook her head.

“Oh, don’t worry. The secret’s safe, at least as far as I’m concerned.” Mrs Hudson mimed turning a lock over her lips and throwing the key over her shoulder. “I’ll not tell anyone, but even if I did, well. I’d just be a crazy old lady talking nonsense, wouldn’t I.”

Janine had to concede that point. “But…how did you figure it out?” she asked, slowly tightening her scarf around her collar. “Did Sherlock tell you?”

“Oh, no. No, he didn’t. He’s probably still trying to figure it out, anyway, with his chemicals and microscope and all that—” She flapped her hand. “But he sent me some of that honey as a kind of present, and Mrs Turner and I shared it with some fresh bread at tea. I brought the rest of the jar home, used it here and there—I do love a bit of sweet, you know—and a few days later, my hip didn’t hurt, and my hands didn’t hurt, and I, well. I looked in the mirror, didn’t I.” She brushed the back of one hand across her own cheek and gave Janine a cheeky grin. “I’ve lived a long time, young lady, and I know the effects of a magic garden when I see one. I had one of my own, you see. Back in Florida.” 

Janine blinked. “In Florida,” she echoed.

“In America, yes.”

Janine blinked again. “You had a magic garden.”

“Hmm, yes. It was lovely.” Mrs Hudson paused and looked thoughtful. “Well, it was more of a grove, I suppose.”

Janine stared at Mrs Hudson for a long minute. Her mother in law’s pending murder had nothing on this. She started to unwrap her scarf. “Mrs Hudson, I think I would like that cup of tea after all.”

Mrs Hudson clapped her hands. “Oh, splendid! Come in, then, dear, I’ve just made scones.”

\---


	2. Goodbye and Hello

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A loss, and a new beginning.

Frank was a rebound. Laura, ten years younger than Martha and stunningly beautiful, had been Martha’s first real love.

The two women exchanged tentative smiles across the aisle of a bus on an otherwise unremarkable Tuesday morning, and moved in together fourteen weeks later on a Saturday when both sets of parents were out of town. Laura’s parents were paying her way through secretarial school, while Martha, done with college and long out of the family home, was working long hours on commission at an upscale ladies’ boutique. The flat’s décor was lacking, but the rent was affordable. They shared a tiny sitting room, a smaller kitchen, one bedroom and one lumpy, idyllic bed. Laura contributed the sheets and blankets; Martha brought along a set of plates and some dented pots and pans. Margaret, Martha’s best friend since kindergarten, bought them a delicate pair of wine glasses as a housewarming gift, the finest things either of them had ever owned, and they toasted each other with cheap pinot noir. They would make this work, they told each other, giddy with infinite possibility. They’d be happy here. 

They  _ were _ happy there.

It couldn’t have lasted, of course. Martha could see that clearly now, in hindsight. Laura’s parents were conservative in the worst meaning of the word; a couple of pointed questions from Laura’s brother over an already strained holiday brunch _ ("Roommates?" _ with eyebrows lifted, laughter in his voice) had seen their bill marked paid. The deep frown on Laura’s mother’s face as they all said their goodbyes told Martha all she needed to know. She and Laura never fought about it, hardly even discussed it. They just clung to each other fiercely every night, murmuring and soothing, pretending they weren’t waiting for the end until one day, Laura’s flush-faced father arrived with clenched fists and a stack of boxes. He made quick work of Laura’s belongings, packing them into the cab that he’d borrowed from a cousin, and then pushed Laura herself, distraught and shrieking, forever out the door.

(Since that day, Martha had kept her wine glass, her half of that precious set, carefully nestled in a box on the top shelf of her linen closet. She’d moved it from house to home over the years, but always knew exactly where it was.)

After the slam of the hollow wooden door, Martha stayed in that lumpy, lonely bed, covered only with her own bathrobe, for three days, until Martha lured her out with warm soup and freshly baked bread. A week later, with the rent coming due and no tea left in the cupboard, she dragged herself back to work. She was a shadow of the vivacious woman she’d been before, though, and customers shied away from her sad eyes and pressed-lips smile. After three weeks, the shop owner, regretfully but with certainty, let her go.

Margaret’s uncle owned a pub in the next neighbourhood. He needed a barmaid. Martha, tired, resigned, hopeless, shrugged and took the job.

After a great deal of thought and a sink full of tears, she left her flat--their flat--behind and moved into a noisy, crowded boarding house next to the pub. She buried herself in work in the afternoons and evenings, and gin on her days off. The work didn’t suit her, but the kitchen staff would let her steal a sandwich now and then, and at least she didn’t have to be alone. After a couple of drinks, men would start to flirt with her, and she’d go out on dates for a free meal and do a little more not to have to go home to her empty room. She’d look in the mirror after those nights, her makeup kiss- and pillow-smeared, her skin thin and pale, her eyes dark and ringed, and know that she, like the morning rose Laura had once compared her to, was dying on the vine.

Frank Hudson showed up one morning, asking for a Baileys and coffee and wondering out loud, as he rubbed his hand across his already smooth chin, where an American gentleman could get a shave. Martha stared at him for a long minute, and then gave him the address of a barber in the next street. Frank claimed to be a businessman, just passing through on the way to do some export custom, and he started visiting Margaret’s uncle’s little pub every morning, sharing shy smiles and leaving generous tips for the lonely barmaid. He waited four entire days to invite Martha to join him for dinner. After dessert and a glass of mid-range port, he walked her to her door, kissed her cheek, and wished her a peaceful night’s rest.

Martha drifted off to a wine-soaked sleep and woke up with something to look forward to for the first time in what seemed like forever. It was enough, she thought. He would be enough.

Frank and Martha got serious quite quickly. Margaret’s uncle was suspicious at first, but after Frank set him up with a good price on some fancy French wine, they’d become the best of friends. The uncle would shoo them out before Martha’s shift was due to end, and she and Frank would sit in the local park as he filled her head with dreams—visions of a warm bed, a full belly, never being alone; stories of America, impossibly large, ridiculously friendly, full of spoils for the taking. He’d wrap his arms around her thin shoulders after a hot make out session in the back of a borrowed saloon and whisper to her of adventures to be had, and she’d shiver and tell herself that finally, finally, the life she’d been meant to lead had come along.

She tried not to think of Laura, but she dreamed of her every night. A woman couldn’t be held responsible for her dreams, Martha would tell herself firmly, when she’d wake tingling with longing.

It hadn’t been six weeks when Frank proposed, over a bottle of French champagne and under the light of the full moon. They’d get married here, in England, he said, and then head immediately for the States. They’d live in a flat at first, but it wouldn’t be long before they’d buy a house there, with a bit of land. They’d have flowers and fresh fruit and parties every night. Mrs Frank Hudson would never want for anything, so would she, please, would she? Martha, knowing full well what her answer would be, coyly asked for time to think it over.

She worked hard to convince herself she was in love. She tried to believe that Frank was what she’d been waiting for, and really, on some level, he was, since what she’d been waiting for was a ticket out of town. Her heart hadn’t been broken, after all. Rather, it had been shredded and scattered among the streets of her North London neighbourhood, months before she met him. She couldn’t escape the memories here. She’d see a flower in a window box bending in the wind or the glimmer of a streetlight clicking on in the middle of a cloudy day, and she’d remember—a nervous smile over a bouquet of red roses, a first kiss at twilight, saucy and bold and delicious.

Two days later, Martha made plans to see Margaret for supper. She was rushing up to the train station—their pending engagement had made Frank frisky, and it had been a struggle to get free of his roaming hands—when she came face to face with Laura’s brother. She’d tried her best to put him out of her mind, and at first she lowered her head and tried to make her way around him. He stopped squarely in her path, however, a sinister grin on his face, and slowly lifted one hand to his face in an obscene two-fingered gesture.

Without a single moment’s consideration, Martha grasped the pointed end of her umbrella, planted her feet firmly, and swung, letting the hardwood handle of her umbrella make direct contact with the hateful man’s hateful face. She stood for a moment, watching with immense satisfaction as he fell dazed to his knees, before she stepped around him and went on her way.

She told Margaret about the proposal, and Margaret only sighed and looked away. “I don’t trust him, and I don’t like him. He’s not right for you, Martha, and you know it.”

“Come now. He’s a good man, Margaret,” Martha replied, hoping it was true. “And it’s a chance for a fresh start. Will you stand up for me?”

Margaret crossed her arms and shook her head. 

“Don’t make me beg,” Martha said, her voice cracking. “Please, Peach. I need you to be there for me.”

Margaret finally threw up her arms in surrender. “All right. I will, but I’ll hate it. Hate it, Martha. He’s taking you to America, for Christ’s sake. It’s insane. It’s the end of an era.” 

Martha left a few minutes later, subdued, but spent the ride home telling herself that Margaret was being unnecessarily dramatic. She gave Frank her answer, turned in her notice at the bar, and selected a lovely blue dress for Margaret to wear at the wedding, thinking how nicely it would set off her auburn hair. 

Margaret was nowhere to be found when it came time to throw the bouquet. Her uncle made excuses for her, but Martha didn’t need them.

One week later, the new Mrs Hudson was on her way across the ocean. The newlyweds rode in the economy section, because, as Frank said, the whole plane got there at the same time, so why waste money?

Miami was everything London wasn’t: sunny. Green. Messy. Dangerous. She stepped into the open doorway of the aeroplane at Miami International and nearly gagged on the humidity, immediately feeling her hair wilt and underarms grow moist. “Come on, darling,” Frank urged, tugging on her still-wedding-manicured hand, and she stepped out onto the metal staircase, wobbling briefly on the heels of her one pair of good shoes. The sun glared off the railing of the staircase, off the pavement, off the shiny shoulders of Frank’s suit jacket, and in that moment, she felt very fragile, a sliver of ice.

\---


	3. The Grove

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mrs Hudson's first avocado.

“It was a mess from the start,” Mrs Hudson said to Janine in a confidential tone, as she poured her another cup of tea. “Marriage, America…I had no idea what I was getting into.”

“Well, you were young,” Janine said, lifting her cup to her lips.

Mrs Hudson hummed. “Not so young. Thirty-five, I think? I probably should have known better, but, well. It wouldn’t have mattered anyway. What was I going to do? Go back home to work in the pub?”

“You could have done,” Janine pointed out. “Or you could have gone elsewhere, even somewhere else in America. You could have gone to New York. Or California, god help you.”

“I suppose, but…” Mrs Hudson sighed. “It was different for us then, you know? Us women, I mean. I was  _ married _ . I was a wife. I had a husband. We didn’t have options. I was supposed to make it work.”

Janine nodded knowingly. “So what did you do?”

“I made it work.” Mrs Hudson said, lifting her shoulders in a shrug. “It wasn’t so bad at first. After a couple of years, Frank called on some buddies, as he called them, and they built us a house. Two storeys, a nice kitchen, that brown Mexican tile in the bathroom. Air conditioning, if you can believe it. I was always cold in Florida. It was a great place to go through menopause.”

Janine choked a little on her tea. “Menopause,” she said after she’d caught her breath. “You were thirty-five!”

“Oh, I mean later, of course,” Mrs Hudson said, handing her a serviette. “Those first few years, though, well. The house was nice, but the bedroom was nicer, if you know what I mean. Frank was quite gifted in that way.” Mrs Hudson pointed down toward her crotch with one hand, and covered her giggle with the other. “We didn’t go out much, really. I used to dance for him, you know. Fan dances, except without the fan, if you get my meaning. They were quite effective.”

Janine stared at her, open mouthed. She swallowed. “I see,” she said at last, and wondered if she could ever drink enough tequila to erase  _ that  _ image.

“Oh, don’t you pretend you’re shocked. I read those things you said in the tabloids, back when. Seven times a week. I mean, really.” Mrs Hudson took a bite of her scone, chewing contemplatively for a moment. “Not that we didn’t have nights like that. I remember this one time, when Frank…”

Janine held up a hand. There was only so much tequila in the world. “Not to be rude, Mrs Hudson, but…there was a magic garden somewhere in this story, wasn’t there?”

Mrs Hudson brightened. “Oh! Of course, dear. I do get distracted. Well, I mentioned the house. We had neighbours fairly close on either side—not like here, you know, but still close enough to know each other’s business. Everything is so green in Florida, and just so…big. There are flowers everywhere, and there’s not much of a winter, so everything just keeps growing. And the insects, my god, they’re enormous. I’ve not seen anything like it. You have to give the Americans credit, you know. They manage to live in places that would really quite like to kill them. I found an alligator in the birdbath once, not long after we got moved in. It was a little one, but—” She shuddered. “Anyway. There was a little garden with a patio out back of the house, where I would take my tea before it got too hot, and then out behind that, there was another bit of land with some trees. When I got to clearing the vines on the back fence, after we’d been there a few months, I discovered a sort of a gate, and a path that led to a particular stand of trees. One morning, when Frank had left early, I decided to go see where it went.” She smiled at the memory. “The little path was quite clear, you know. Well-travelled, which I found odd, considering I’d never seen anyone out there. I followed the trail and it ended at a little bench under a stand of three avocado trees.

“Avocado trees?” Janine asked, curiously. “I’ve seen avocados at Sainsbury’s, I think, but I’ve never seen a tree.”

“I hadn’t either, at the time. They don’t grow well here, it’s too cold. But in Florida, they were quite common, you know, and these were just lovely.” Mrs Hudson sighed. “I know it sounds silly, but they were. Tall and even, and even for that place, so green. And the fruit, my god.” She cupped her hands and held them out toward Janine. “So much of it, huge and heavy.”

“Hmm.” Janine took a sip of her tea. “I’d have no idea what to do with an avocado.”

“Oh, I didn’t either, dear. Not at the time. But I walked up to the trees anyway, and took a seat on the bench, and looked back at my house, and I remember. I just sat there and had a little think about things.”

“What kind of things?”

“Well, Frank, of course, and his work, and his friends. I’d begun to put together some of the things he was up to by then.” She leaned in a little, and Janine, after a moment, hesitantly mirrored the gesture. “Drugs,” Mrs Hudson mouthed, and leaned back. “Gun running, too, and gambling,” she continued in a normal tone. “Confidence work. You know, strong-arming local businesses and the like. Arson, I was pretty sure, for the insurance. Tax fraud, but that was in the water then.” She sighed. “I didn’t find out about the prostitutes until later. Those poor girls.”

Janine stared at her again. “Mrs Hudson, please don’t take offense, but from that entire list, ‘drugs’ is not the word I’d choose to whisper.”

Mrs Hudson chuckled. “Oh, right. It’s just habit to me now.” She pointed to her ceiling, and Sherlock’s flat beyond it. “You know,” she mouthed.

“Ah. Right.” Janine gave her a rueful smile. “I forget. Please, do go on.”

“I sat there for a while, but the rain clouds started building up—it rains there nearly every day, I swear—and I decided to head back to the house before I got caught in it. I went to stand up, and…” Mrs Hudson trailed off, and her eyes grew thoughtful. Janine waited patiently. “I’ve never been able to decide if it was the wind,” Mrs Hudson finally went on, “or if it was the…you know, but right then, an avocado fell into my lap.” Mrs Hudson gave a little smack to the table top. “Plop.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t follow,” Janine said, frowning. “You said if it was the wind, or if it was the…”

Mrs Hudson sighed. “If it was the magic.”

“Oh.” Janine nodded. She remembered the first time the thought had occurred to her, the circles of possibility and denial in her mind. She remembered the first time she thought to mention it to Kev, too. It had taken some time to build up the courage.

“I wouldn’t have thought it then, anyway,” Mrs Hudson went on. “That came later. But I picked up the avocado, and it was warm from the sun and it smelled so good. Fresh. So I took it home. I had to look it up in a cookbook, but I figured out how to tell if it was ripe--it was, of course, they were always ripe from those trees--and how to cut it. They have those stones in the middle, it quite dulled my knife. Then I peeled it, and sliced it, and put it into a salad. I was quite proud of myself, you know,” Mrs Hudson’s eyes were twinkling as she exaggeratedly puffed out her chest. “I’d hunted my own sustenance in the wilds of that untamed land.”

Janine laughed. “I don’t blame you. How was it?”

“Smooth. Buttery, kind of earthy, if that makes sense, but with just the tiniest hint of sweet. I honestly wasn’t sure at first if I liked it or not. But I ate the entire salad, and as I licked the last taste off my fork…

Mrs Hudson sat lost in memory for at least a minute. Finally, carefully, Janine reached across and gently tapped the back of her hand. “Mrs Hudson? What happened?”

Mrs Hudson didn’t meet her eyes. Instead, she stood and walked over to the liquor cart in the corner, picked up a bottle of amber liquid, and splashed a good amount into two small cordial glasses. She walked back over and handed one to Janine, sat back down in her chair, and threw back half of her own drink with a single gulp. She gave a little shudder and then, finally, met Janine’s gaze. “I heard a woman screaming, and I saw, in my mind’s eye, a car exploding, down at the docks. I could smell the gas burning, hear people crying…it was like it was happening right in front of me.”

“Huh.” Janine looked down at her glass and then back up at Mrs Hudson, perplexed. “That must have been…disturbing.”

“Hmm, yes. That’s a good word for it.” Mrs Hudson sighed and drained the rest of the glass, giving another little shudder before speaking. “It was even more  _ disturbing _ forty-eight hours later, when it actually happened.”

\---


	4. Bourbon in the Backyard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martha can't avoid the truth.

Frank, Martha had come to realise, was something of an idiot.

It wasn’t a shocking realisation. Martha had seen plenty of men meet good fortune that exceeded their talents. Family members, classmates, even ne’er do wells from the pub—all got the benefit of any doubt, again and again and again. Put in a little effort and have a willie to waggle, and the world would come running to your door. So when Frank came tearing into the house one day, carrying a banker’s box full of ledgers and muttering about an audit, she’d sighed a resigned sigh and pulled out a calculator. “Here,” she said. “Let me look.” Two weeks of twenty-hour days, staring at numbers and making polite, bright-eyed inquiries at the local IRS office and state bar association and she’d managed, just barely, to find a loophole that saw the company walk away with only a slap to Frank’s wrist. He looked at her differently after that, with a hint of respect and a shrewdness that she’d seen in the eyes of any number of men who’d wanted to use her. Her drunk excuse of a brother, who’d wanted to turn her out to steal cigarettes from the corner store, had looked at her like that. Her first boss, who’d asked her to lie to his wife about his time in the office while he was out cruising alleys for a bit of rough, had looked at her like that. Even Margaret’s uncle, who liked to nip upstairs to the office with a bottle of Jameson but needed someone to watch the bar, had looked at her like that. She knew that look when she saw it, but this time, she found she didn’t mind so much. Frank was her husband, after all. And she liked her house, liked how they lived. It would be a shame to lose it. She got a little lonely sometimes, though, and would be glad for a reason to be around people, so when he asked if she’d mind helping out with the business here and there, she agreed with alacrity.

A week later, he showed her to a dingy, over-chilled office in a stuccoed addition over a well-trafficked strip bar. One tall filing cabinet in the corner was locked, and she was informed, on numerous occasions, that it would be staying that way. She only visited one or two days a week, never on any kind of regular schedule. Frank spent most of his time in a curved-banquette corner booth in the bar downstairs. Sometimes she’d see him pulling away in his ridiculous Lincoln—American drivers had the most overwrought notions of luxury, she thought—with his trusty lieutenant, Manuel, stone faced by his side.

A month later, Frank told her she wouldn’t be needed for the next week or so. The day after that, Martha visited the grove behind her house, tasted avocado for the first time, and had her disturbing vision.

Two days after that, the news reported a fire at the docks, lethal and destructive, with several shipping containers completely destroyed. The cause of the fire was unknown, they said, but two people had been killed, and several others had been injured, some severely. It would be hours before the flames were brought under control.

Frank came home late that evening smelling of gasoline, with black dirt under his fingernails and ashes in his hair.

Martha didn’t sleep that night. Three of the injured had been children, little ones who habitually snuck into the area to scavenge for the detritus that fell from containers, looking for little things they could sell to the street markets or present to their beleaguered mothers as gifts. Martha had seen pictures of the children in the hospital, covered in bandages, mouths open in silent cries of pain. She stole a pack of Frank’s cigarettes while he slept and smoked the entire thing, one by one, in the back garden, washing the bitterness of the nicotine down with good American bourbon and trying hard not to think.

As the sun’s first rays tinted the horizon, she heard a particularly clear thread of birdsong coming from the direction of the little grove. The phrase repeated once, and then again, a sweet, soft song in a minor key. Tired and sad, at least a little drunk, she imagined the melody drifting across the wild open space and over her fence to find her, to wrap around her shoulders and lean close to her ears and whisper to her of beauty, of comfort. 

She swayed on her feet; maybe she was drunker than she thought. Still, the bird’s song continued, calling to her, and as the sky shifted from pink to blue, without thinking, she shuffled over to her fence and opened the gate. She walked down the smooth path, following the bird’s gentle melody, to the little grove, which felt as welcoming as it had last time. She sank down on the little bench and took in a deep breath full of flowers and humus and green and started to cry.

She’d known, but she hadn’t.

She’d seen a car exploding in her mind’s eye, seen the fire, a horrible thing, a vestigial fear of anyone who’d lived in the old, close neighborhoods of England. She’d heard a scream, heard children crying, and now there were three babies, lying in the hospital, desperate for morphine. Two men, guards, it had turned out, had died; those men had had families, left more children hurt and afraid. The news today would report the financial value of the property destroyed, but that was irrelevant, nothing. People had been damaged, lives forever changed. And it was all, she suspected, because of Frank Hudson, her husband, who’d blocked her from the office. Who’d trailed the grey of ashes across the bathmat as he stepped into the shower to wash the reek of gasoline off his body. Who’d carefully put his dirty clothes into a rubbish bag and set them out on the porch. “I’ll just take care of these, Martha,” he called back into the house, while she sat on the barstool at the kitchen island with her eyes closed, trying to swallow back her nausea. Frank, who’d turned in early, telling her he had to leave early to pick up Manuel, because something had happened to his car. He’d chuckled, then, and her fingers had involuntarily flexed from the effort of not slapping him.

Her tears slowed, and then stopped. She sniffed once, and again, righting herself, wiping her eyes. The bird song had never faded, but it shifted now, a new melody that sang, instead of sadness, of hope, of…strength, somehow. Martha listened, listened closely, almost fiercely, as she looked up into the trees, trying to catch a glimpse of the creature who was bringing her such solace, such beauty. She couldn’t see the bird, not even the flash of a wing, hidden as it was by all the leaves, but as she turned to leave, two avocados fell at her feet. 

She stopped and stood very still, staring at the avocados for a long, long time, but at last she bent, scooped them up, and headed for home.

Frank was in the kitchen when she came back in, slurping oversweet coffee in the annoying way he had. “Avocados, eh?” he said, with excessive joviality as he watched her come through the back door with narrowed eyes. “Taste like potting soil. Can’t stand them myself.” _ Good _ , she thought, but didn’t say a word as she gave him a tight smile, carefully placed the avocados into the little basket she kept on the table, and walked over to the refrigerator to start making his lunch.

\---


	5. The Next Avocado

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another avocado, and Mrs Hudson had a decision to make.

“Avocados are surprisingly versatile,” Mrs Hudson said, nudging the plate of scones in Janine’s direction.

Janine took another scone and added a great dollop of clotted cream. “Are they?”

“Mmm, yes. They rather take on the flavours around them. I didn’t know that at first, of course. I mostly just cut them and put them in salads.” Mrs Hudson grinned ruefully. “The first few times I had guacamole, at the club, you know, or at a Mexican restaurant, I didn’t even make the connection. I should have, of course. That colour.”

Janine chuckled. “So you kept eating them after that first time.”

“Oh, of course. Just like you kept eating the honey after you put it together.”

“Yeah, okay, fair point.” Janine leaned across the table, eyes narrowed in focus. “So what happened?”

“Well, for a day or so, not much. I just sort of…left them there and went about my business. There were all kinds of news reports on the television and in the papers about the explosion. We had actual papers then, you know.” Mrs Hudson took a sip of her tea, looking thoughtful. “Miami had a horrible reputation in the US then, with the boats and all the--" Her voice trailed off, and she pointed to the ceiling.

Janine followed the gesture with her eyes. “Drugs,” she said clearly. “He’s in Sussex.”

Mrs Hudson laughed. “Oh, you’re right. Silly habit. Anyway…they had the drugs, cocaine mostly, and all the violence around that, but really, it was a conservative city. They still believed in law and order. The investigation—well, every man in a tie wanted a piece of it.”

“Frank didn’t get caught, though.”

Mrs Hudson shook her head. “No. Questioned, yes. I think more than one investigator thought he’d done it, but in the end, there wasn’t any proof. The car was completely destroyed, and no one had seen anything.”

“No one but you,” Janine said, pointedly.

“True,” Mrs Hudson said, pursing her lips. “But who was I? Frank had repeatedly told me that spouses didn’t have to testify against each other in court—pointed it out every chance he got for a while there, in fact.”

“He knew you knew.”

“He was afraid I knew,” Mrs Hudson corrected. “I’d quite tipped my hand with the audit thing. Showed him I had a brain. He’d thought me just a ditzy barmaid before that. I think that’s why he’d married me in the first place. He was certain he could fool me.”

“Idiot,” Janine said matter of factly.

“Yes,” Mrs Hudson agreed. “But anyway. I’d left the avocados on the table. The next day, I took a deep breath and made another salad.” 

“And?”

“And…nothing. At first. I sat on that kitchen chair and stared at the wall for fifteen minutes, and all I got was a stiff backside. I’ll admit, I was a little disappointed.”

“And then?”

“And then,” Mrs Hudson said, “two hours later, I was cleaning the bathroom, and suddenly I saw…a bank.”

Janine blinked. “A bank?”

“Yes. A big, brick building, tall doors, on a corner. I recognized it immediately. It was just down from the British consulate, in a nice little neighbourhood right on the water. They lost that street, I heard, some time back. That whole area, in fact, in the climate change flooding. Pity.”

“I think they lost most of Florida in those floods,” Janine said dryly. “But the bank?”

“Yes. I saw it, clear as I see you now. It was daytime, and sunny. I remember the streets were wet, so it would have been after the afternoon rains. And I heard—I heard gunshots, and screaming. It was like something from a film.”

Janine was staring at her. “My god,” she said. “That’s just crazy.”

“I wondered that, you know. Wondered if I wasn’t going a bit…” Mrs Hudson made a circular motion with one finger by her ear. “But I just kept watching—I mean, I didn’t really have a choice—and I saw two men run out, wearing masks and carrying those big guns in one hand and big black satchels in the other. I knew immediately who it was.”

“Frank?” Janine breathed.

Mrs Hudson shook her head. “No, Manuel, his right hand man,” she said. “And another man who worked for Frank. He was enormous, even bigger than Manuel. Frank had told me he was a bouncer at the club, but I suspected he was something of an all purpose thug. I’d never been introduced, but I hadn’t wanted to be. His name was Joseph, and I didn’t have to be told he was real trouble. He had a big snake tattoo that ran up and around his neck, and I could see it as he ran out of the bank, just like I see you now.” She placed a hand on her neck, just under her chin. “Right there.”

“What did you do?”

“I dropped the sponge and went outside. It was so hot that day, I remember, and it was going to rain any minute, and I stood there and looked in the direction of the grove, and I—” Mrs Hudson sighed. “I had no idea what to do. I didn’t have any evidence from the explosion at the docks, did I, and there was no way I could tell this story and not sound completely barmy. But—men died, you know, in the fire. And I could still see those poor babies if I closed my eyes. I knew I had to do something. I’d had forty-eight hours after the previous—you know, I never called them visions, or dreams, or anything like that. I mean, I never told anyone about them, of course, but in my head—I just called them avocados.”

“Avocados.” Janine couldn’t help but snort. “I like it.”

“It worked as well as anything else.” Mrs Hudson shrugged. “But as I was saying, I’d had forty-eight hours the time before. I had no way of knowing if there was a clock to this. I dithered for what felt like hours, until finally, I grabbed my handbag and drove down to the market on the corner. They still had, oh, we called them payphones, you know…” She pantomimed a box on the wall, and held her hand up to her ear like a receiver. “The police station was a free call. I put a handkerchief over the mouthpiece, like I’d seen on TV, and I made my voice kind of rough, and I said…” She lowered her voice, making it flat and scratchy. “You’d better watch that bank in Brickell Bay. Gonna be trouble in a day or so.”

“Goodness. What did they say?”

“They said there were several banks in Brickell Bay, which one was I calling about? I think they thought it was a kid having a bit of a joke, tell you the truth.”

Janine groaned. “Of course they would.”

“Well, I was stuck for a minute, kind of flailing about, but then I closed my eyes, and there it was. Atlantic National Bank. I saw the sign as clear as glass, though I knew it hadn’t been there in the vision before. I kind of grunted it out, slammed down the phone, and got out of the parking lot as fast as I could.”

“Did they believe you?’

“They must have, or close enough. Frank worked late that night and the next, but he came home early the day after that and he was livid. He didn’t say much, but he kicked the trash can in the kitchen and punched a hole in the bathroom wall. He’d never done anything like that before. Then he drank an entire bottle of whisky and passed out on the sofa.”

Janine reached across the table and squeezed her hand. “He didn’t hurt you,” she said, with a bit of question in her voice.

“No, love.” Mrs Hudson squeezed back. “But the following Monday, he came home from work and stood in the kitchen and just…stared at me. I was spooked, and asked him what he was about. He stared a minute more and then asked me very slowly, like he was talking to a child, if I’d been making any phone calls lately.”

“Oh, shit,” Janine said, covering her mouth with one hand. 

“That’s what I was thinking, yes. He must have known somebody on the police force, someone who could have told him about the tip. I played it off, though. Said only to his office, once to check the hours at the post office, but otherwise I didn’t think so, why, had I forgotten to pay the bill? I put on quite the act, running around the kitchen, looking for the file where I kept the bills, checking for a dial tone to make sure we were still connected…finally he just huffed and walked out. That was the last I ever heard of it. He had me start back to work the week after.”

“Close one,” Janine said, shaking her head. 

“It was,” Mrs Hudson agreed. “Too close.”

The women sat quietly for a few minutes. Mrs Hudson finished her tea, patting neatly at her lips with a serviette, while Janine watched the rain out the kitchen window, letting the story swirl around in her mind. Suddenly, Janine gave a little gasp and sat up straight. “That was only one avocado,” she said. “Did you ever eat the second?”

“Oh, dear,” Mrs Hudson said, smiling ruefully. “You were paying attention, weren’t you. Well. First, you have to tell me.” She leaned in close, searching Janine’s face. “Did Sherlock ever tell you about the exotic dancing?”

\---


	6. Enter William

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martha makes a new friend.

Martha was pretty, or so she’d been told. 

Admirers (and she’d had many) had never hesitated to list her many assets. She had smooth, fair skin with the classic English rosiness, quick to burn but otherwise a perfect backdrop for her bright eyes and easy smile. Her hair was shiny and shimmery, kept short as a defence against the Florida humidity in a sassy manner that suited her. Her hands were delicate and expressive, well-shaped and elegant, and her voice always had a hint of laughter around the edges. Of course, she had a trim body, lean and flexible, with enough up top and around the beam to notice. She wasn’t stunning, by any means, but she was attractive, and her husband seemed quite happy to show her off. She’d played along when Frank asked her to charm the building manager or flirt with a couple of local policemen—all in innocent fun, she thought, a way to contribute to the family business. In any event, she’d endured worse working her way through a pub crowd with a tray of pints on a weeknight.

She wasn’t thinking of any of that as she came downstairs for breakfast Monday morning. Frank had left early, before dawn, and it was nice to have the house to herself, even if she could only appreciate it for an hour or two. She was going back to work today, and after the bank “avocado” and all the tension at home, she was damn glad of it. Frank seemed eager to have her back as well. “Work’s been piling up without you, sweetheart,” he said boisterously, as though he hadn’t been the one to keep her out. 

Of course, he’d drank the last of the coffee. 

With a sigh, she pulled the kettle from the cupboard, and as the tea steeped, she considered the remaining avocado, sitting alone in its little basket. The bank situation had worked out well, Frank’s mood notwithstanding, and anyway, she’d always been the curious sort. Besides, she was rather developing a taste for them, avocados, and had even started to collect a few recipes. She gave a brief thought to how ridiculous the situation was, and then reached into the drawer for her good knife. 

She mashed the avocado pulp in a bowl with a fork, added a bit of olive oil and a few drops of lemon juice, mixed in just a hint of garlic salt, and spread the mixture across two pieces of wheat toast. She sat at the table, took a big bite of her toast--delicious, maybe she’d add some red pepper flakes next time--washed it down with a gulp of tea, and stared expectantly at the plain white wall.

This time, the vision came quickly: her, Martha, alone somewhere, dressed only in her underwear and holding a stack of cash. 

Martha blinked, shook her head, and took another big bite of toast. The image came again, even faster this time, but accompanied this time by a wave of emotion. Feelings were a new addition to her avocado experience, and Martha wasn’t sure she liked it, but she took a deep breath and another bite and leaned into the vision in her mind. Definitely her, the Martha of today, in her bra and knickers, a strap falling down over one shoulder, but with a feeling of...triumph, yes, a sense of victory, mixed with rage and, distantly, a faint burn of shame.

She looked down at the remnants of her toast, her appetite suddenly gone. “What in the bloody hell,” she murmured, thinking hard, turning everything over, but no explanation emerged. She lost an hour to her thoughts, and had to scurry to make it to the office by the time Frank had mentioned the night before.

She was still distracted as she scurried toward the club from the cracked parking lot down the street, a bag of papers over one shoulder and juggling an awkward box of files. Manuel and Joseph were loitering in the front entranceway, and she felt their eyes on her as she passed. The staircase that led upstairs to the office was just to the side of the bank of posters advertising the girls performing that week. She leaned the box against the banister to fish the keys from her handbag and then paused with her foot on the first riser and looked back. The men were still watching her, silently, openly, their dark eyes barely blinking. She stared back for a long moment, but the men never looked away.

She started up the staircase, frowning. She was halfway up when she heard footsteps approaching from the opposite direction of the street, followed by a throat clearing behind her. “Pardon me,” said an unexpectedly deep man’s voice. “You’re Frank Hudson’s wife, aren’t you?”

Deep, and British. She turned quickly and looked down to see a tall, slender man in a crisp shirt and well-fitted dress slacks, a shock of black curls nearly to his shoulders and a creamy white complexion already turning pink with the day’s heat. The man wasn’t smiling, but she had the sense he was amused by something. It wouldn’t do to have Frank find her talking to a man they didn’t know. Though she couldn’t see around the corner to the doorway of the club, her eyes involuntarily slanted back in that direction.

The man saw this, and nodded. “I’m expected. They know me,” he explained, and took a step up and held out his hand. “It’s all right. I’m William. William Holmes. I’m supposed to meet Frank here, only the bus ran a little early.”

Ah. She put the box down on the stair next to her, took his hand, and gave it a firm shake. “Martha Hudson,” she said. “Frank usually meets people in the club.”

He nodded and she saw his face shift into subtle worry. “I know, it’s just—“

She narrowed her eyes to take a closer look. Under the dark hair, and above the somehow crisp collar, William was young, almost painfully so. He was also breathtakingly beautiful, with bright, clear eyes, full lips, and sharp, improbable cheekbones. His accent was distinct—upper class London, a prep school, most likely, and wasn’t that interesting? Anyway, he didn’t have to finish his thought. The boys downstairs would eat him alive. He was watching her watch him with an air of expectation. She’d always been drawn to confidence. “Come on up, then,” she said, adjusting the tote bag on her shoulder and leaning down to pick up the box. “I’ll make us a nice cuppa while you wait.”

William reached out to touch her arm. “Let me help you with that,” he said, and gave her what she somehow sensed was a rare real smile. “A cup of tea sounds absolutely delightful.”

Martha went to fill the kettle as William put the box on the desk and started looking around with obvious curiosity. “How do you take it?” she called back over her shoulder.

“You were right, you know,” William answered. 

Martha turned around. “Excuse me?”

“You were right,” he repeated, crisply. “About the men. They  _ were _ looking at you differently. Something has changed. Maybe they’ve been told to watch you.”

She frowned and glanced toward the window. “How did you know what I was thinking?”

“That was the easy part,” he answered, with a dismissive wave of his hand. He perched on the edge of the desk, crossing his arms and stretching his long legs out in front of him. “Two sugars, splash of milk if you’ve got it. Frank mentioned you to me, and I didn’t think, but in context…” William broke off and took his turn looking out the window. Martha watched him for a moment, then turned to finish the tea. William seemed to snap out of his reverie as she held out his cup. “Why did he marry you?” he asked, reaching for the tea.

Martha took a step back, cup still outstretched. “I beg your pardon,” she said, shocked.

William shook his head. “Mrs Hudson, it is apparent to me you run this office. You are not a stupid woman--rather the opposite, in fact. You’ve been Frank’s wife for, let’s see…” He quickly looked her over, mumbling to himself. “...No more than five years. He’s not spent much time abroad, especially in the past decade; that is an absolute certainty. That fact is apparent from his speech patterns, though you could also easily ascertain it from the state of his business. So. He met, wooed, and wed you in what was very short order and while a whirlwind romance is the romantic ideal, I’d still be surprised if you hadn’t asked yourself the question at some point. I will ask again.” He stood and lifted the tea out of her hands, settled back on the desk, and took a sip. “Why did Frank Hudson marry you?”

“It’s rather a personal question, young man.” She clasped her hands together to hide their sudden shaking, lifted her chin to hide the wobble of her bottom lip. “Perhaps--” She cleared her throat. “Perhaps it would be better if you waited downstairs after all.”

William frowned, bit his lower lip and let his gaze fall down to his feet. “I’ve struck a nerve, haven’t I. I..I’m sorry. I don’t mean to offend.” 

Martha felt her anger fading, though the anxiety seemed determined to settle in. “Well, you did,” she said gently. “But it’s all right.”

William nodded, giving her a quick little half smile. “It’s just...well, think about it this way.” He stood and walked over to the window. “We’re likely the only two Brits around here, aren’t we?” He motioned out at the street. “I mean, this isn’t the neighborhood where I’d expect to encounter a robust ex-pat community.”

Martha stopped to think. “Well, there’s...Pat works behind the bar sometimes. He’s Irish. Does that count?”

“Is he good looking?”

“What?”

William turned from the window and motioned between the two of them. “Well, empirically, I think you’d have to say the two of us are on the attractive side.”

Martha blinked. “Is that relevant?”

“Sadly, yes. Now, please answer. Is Pat attractive?”

“Uh, no. Not in the least.”

“Pity. All right, then.” He turned back to the window. “Pat does  _ not  _ count. But there’s someone who most emphatically does, and I think his car is pulling up downstairs right now.”

Martha took the few steps over to stand next to William and look down into the street. The long, black town car had stopped nearly in the middle of the street, and as they watched, a short man with white-blond hair in a tight pair of fuchsia coloured trousers and a black t-shirt hopped out of the driver’s seat and ran around to open the door. “Oh,” said Mrs Hudson, as the back seat’s occupant stepped out. “I’ve seen that man somewhere before. He’s British, then?”

“Yes, he most certainly is. Have you actually met him?” 

“No. You?”

“Not as of yet. His name is Laurence Clovington Stone. Rocky to his friends.” William looked over at Martha and rolled his eyes, making her grin. “He’s the City Manager here, an appointed position. He’s actually one of the longest serving City Managers in U.S. history. This is his fourth administration.”

Stone stood in the middle of the street, watching as his car pulled away. Cars had to swerve to move around him, but he hardly seemed to notice. Martha hummed. “Won’t last long if he stands in the middle of the street like that.”

William nodded. “I’d hate to be the driver of the car that hit him. By virtue of his position alone, he’s a man of great power. Has jurisdiction over city contracts, zoning, utilities, budgets, marketing...And then there’s the informal power. I’m told he has copious files that he keeps under lock and key. Work records, financial information, personal matters...he’s got a little something on virtually everyone.”

Martha blinked, surprised. “Blackmail?”

“Or as good as.” William frowned, watching as Stone finally started making his way across the street to the pavement in front of the club. Horns blared and brakes screeched, but Stone paid them no mind. “Our man Stone likes to be in charge,” William murmured, “and will do what he has to to stay there.” He shot her a quick wink. “Reminds me of my brother.”

“I was just thinking, we had those sorts in England. Dukes of tiny fiefdoms, my mum used to say.”

“Exactly so, except Miami is hardly tiny. In any case, Laurence Clovington Stone would be an important man for a man in your husband’s position to cultivate.”

She leaned back and regarded him. “Cultivate,” she repeated.

“Hmm, yes. And it’s a tricky balance to walk. A relationship with a man like this might not make your husband, but the lack of one, or the wrong one, could certainly break him.. No, a man like Frank Hudson would want to make certain gestures toward a man like Stone. Buy him lunch. Give him gifts. Invite him to parties.” 

“Have him to dinner?” Martha asked, thinking of the long grocery list she’d found that morning on her way out the door, left by Frank atop her key ring along with an envelope of twenties. 

William lifted his eyebrows, still watching the man on the pavement. “Probably. Pour some decent wine, show off his lovely British wife. How’s your Sunday roast?”

She sniffed. “Quite good, actually. But Frank and I have known each other for--”

William turned to her with an expression of expectation.

“Fine,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Five years.” She only just held back from sticking out her tongue when William grinned triumphantly. “But I doubt he had this Rocky on his radar that long ago.”

William’s grin faded. “Yes, well. It’s hard to say. Four administrations, remember. It would take a particularly strong mayor to displace him, but I suppose that’s not outside the realm of possibility. What  _ is _ certain is that your husband started making aggressive moves to grow his business almost immediately after his return from the Commonwealth. Certainly any wife would have helped cement his reputation as an upstanding member of the community. But a  _ British _ wife, specifically?” William waggled his hand back and forth. “Could be a fortunate coincidence, I suppose.”

“So you’re implying he married me to, what. Ingratiate myself to that man?” She whirled around suddenly, eyes wide. “You’re not implying he wants me to…”

“Oh, no. No, no, no. No offense, Mrs Hudson, but while our man Rocky has a luxurious office, he has an even better appointed closet.”

Martha took a moment to catch up to what he was saying. “Oh. You’re saying he likes men.”

Willam raised one eyebrow. “Well, yes. Did you see his driver?” Martha hummed thoughtfully. He watched her for a long moment. “You don’t seem...repulsed,” he said at last.

“By homosexuality?” She gave him a knowing smile. “Hardly.”

William blinked. “You’re fascinating, Mrs Hudson.”

“And you are still a mystery to me.” She straightened and looked him over. “Why are you here?”

“Ah.” His face fell. “As it happens, your husband and I have a...business relationship, of sorts.”

She looked again at his narrow frame, his almost too-bright eyes, and the picture suddenly became clear. “Drugs,” she said clearly, almost loudly.

He took a deep breath. “In a word, yes. And foolishly, I’ve allowed myself to fall into some debt to him. You don’t really know him as a businessman, I gather.” He turned back to face the window. “He is not patient in these matters,” he murmured.

“William, what are you saying?” 

“I’m saying…” He straightened and muttered a curse. A car door slammed in the street below, and a second later, the clomp of boots echoed up the stairs. William turned to face the door. A faint blush of pink tinted his cheeks. “You’ll see.”

The door flew open, and Frank Hudson stepped inside. He caught sight of William and bared his teeth in a sneer. “Oh. It’s you. Not going to lie, Billy, I thought you’d make a run for it.”

William’s cheeks were ablaze now, but he lifted his chin proudly. “I told you I’d be here.”

Martha cleared her throat and took a step forward, using the motion to draw Frank’s attention. “Hello, darling.”

The storm in Frank’s face cleared, though his smile didn’t reach his eyes. He took a couple of steps into the room. “Hello, Dearest. I see you two have met. Had a nice chat, did you?”

“Quite lovely, yes.” Martha gave Frank a nervous smile. “Always nice to hear a familiar accent.”

Frank gave a loud, fake laugh. “Hear that, Billy?” He moved as if to slap William on the back, but William just barely dodged the blow. Frank grimaced and grabbed his arm instead. “Martha,” Frank said, without looking away from William’s downcast profile, “we’ve got a very important visitor downstairs today. I’d like to introduce you. Why don’t you just run down to the club and freshen up a bit. I’ll be along in a minute.”

“You want me to go down there alone?” she asked, thinking of the men’s eyes on her body, the fear on William’s face.

Frank still didn’t look at her. “You’ll be fine. I’ll come down in just a minute.”

“All right then, Frank.” She gave William a nod and picked up her handbag. She left the door open a few inches behind her as she left, and outside, she hesitated on the top stair.

“Now, you listen,” she heard Frank say in a low, menacing tone. “You remember what I told you?”

“Of course I remember.” William’s voice was tense.

“Good boy. You play along, and that smart mouth could get you out of trouble for once.”

“We had a deal, Frank.” William’s voice had taken on a note of pleading. “You promised.”

“You’re pathetic. Fine. Here.” Martha leaned back just enough to see the space between the two men as they stood a couple of feet away from the door. Frank’s hand held out a small packet of fine white powder, and William’s long, pale fingers snatched it up. “My very best. And your debt wiped cleaned as long as you make sure Stone has a good time. Shouldn’t be too hard. I hear you’re quite capable.”

William’s hand tucked the packet into the watch packet of his jeans. “You’ve been talking about me? But that’s so flattering. Are you interested?”

Frank moved fast, closing the space between the two men, and she heard Willam’s body slam up against the wall. “Listen here, you fucking...I should…”

The words were out before she’d realised she was going to say them. “Frank, dear,” she called, cupping her hand over the side of her mouth and aiming away from the door. “Are you coming?”

“On my way!” Frank called back. She winced as she heard William’s body hit the wall again. “That snow should keep you for a couple of days,” Frank hissed. “Just do whatever he asks you to, pretty boy.”

“I will. But only tonight. Then I’m done.” 

Frank gave a little humourless chuckle. “Get yourself together. I’ll see you downstairs in five minutes, no longer.”

“Frank,” William said, and the pleading was back. “We had a deal. Just the one night.”

“We’ll see.” Frank’s voice was suddenly louder, and Martha nearly squeaked at the nearness of it. She scurried down the stairs, heart pounding, hands shaking, hoping wildly that she’d misunderstood what she’d just heard.

\---


	7. Long Island Iced Tea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The horrible Mr Stone.

Within sixty seconds of their introduction, Martha knew she despised Laurence Clovington Stone. He barely met her eyes as he took her hand with a grip like a boneless fish. “Charmed,” he said, in a tone both bored and condescending, and dropped her hand a moment too soon to be polite. Her eyes narrowed above her hostess smile. One learned so much about a man from his manners, she thought, barely managing to keep from wiping her hand on her skirt.

Frank, however, seemed to notice nothing amiss. He fawned over Stone, leading him to the best table, offering him the best seat. The scent of fresh floor wax wafted through the air, and Pat, brought in for a rare weekday shift, was carefully and rather ostentatiously polishing the cordial glasses. The girl dancing on the bar was one of their regulars, a popular young lady capable of some rather impressive gymnastics, but Stone didn’t even glance in her direction. He settled into the curved banquette as though it was a throne, spreading his arms across the backs of the benches like he lived there, ordering a drink from the visibly nervous waitress in a brusque tone and yelling after her to make sure the pineapple for his mai tai was fresh, goddamn it. 

“I’ll just go see to that pineapple, Mr Stone,” Frank said as he pushed back from the table. “I know we just got a delivery from the market this morning, so…”

“Yes, yes,” Stone interrupted, waving a lazy hand. “You do that, Fred.”

Frank’s smile grew a little tighter as he turned toward the bar. He paused at Martha’s chair and leaned down next to her ear. “Talk to him,” he whispered. “Turn on the charm. We need him to love us, got it?” He gave her shoulder a little squeeze and slipped away.

Martha resisted the impulse to sigh. “Where are you from, then, Mr Stone?’ she asked, forcing her accent just a little..

Stone’s eyes snapped to her, narrowing shrewdly as he looked her over. “Dagenham,” he finally said, a challenge as much as an answer.

“I see.” She knew what she was supposed to say next, and she said it. “You’ve come a long way, then. A self made man. How impressive.”

Stone laughed, a single loud guffaw. “You don’t know the half of it, dearie. It’s one hell of a story.”

She gave Stone a wide smile as the waitress arrived to hand around their drinks. “I’d love to hear it, Mr Stone.”

The prompt was all he needed. Most of his tale was embellished, if not outright horseshit, but he obviously enjoyed the telling of it, and Frank beamed at her as he slipped back into his place at the table. Stone spent several minutes on the poverty of his childhood, danced around the light delinquency of his teens, and was well into the limitless promise of his university years when his voice suddenly trailed off. Martha followed Stone’s line of sight to the entrance and found that William at last had come into the club. Frank immediately stood and waved, smiling widely. “Billy!” he called. “Come have a drink.”

Martha saw William swallow once before he made his way to the table. It didn’t take much effort for Martha to figure out why he had been delayed: his pupils were widely dilated, and he was nearly bouncing on his toes even when while walking. Martha’s chest ached a little to see how he avoided her eyes.

She could tell he’d taken a minute by the mirror on his way downstairs, and a glance across the table told Martha his efforts hadn’t been in vain. Stone’s gaze started at William’s feet and moved slowly up his long body, lingering at the narrow waistline, the smooth chest, and the long, slender neck, screeching to a halt at the full lips and completely missing the desperation in the verdigris eyes.

“Billy,” Frank said warmly. “So good to see you. Laurence, this is my colleague, Billy, over from London. Billy, it’s my honour to introduce Mr Stone, City Manager for the, well, city of Miami.”

William inclined his head in greeting. “Mr Stone. A pleasure.”

Stone licked his lips. “Colleague,” he said, letting his eyes run up and down William’s body again. “And what do you do for Frank, Billy?”

William glanced at Frank, and Martha saw Frank’s eyes narrow, saw him twitch his head just the tiniest bit in Stone’s direction. The look on William’s face put Martha in mind of a mouse she had found in a trap years ago, in her family’s attic. She’d felt sick at the sight of it then, struggling and helpless, powerless to prevent its fate. She felt exactly the same way now.

William, though, was made of stronger stuff. She watched him draw in a deep breath and then cock one hip subtly, just a shifting of weight that pulled his unbuttoned shirt open just a bit wider and emphasised the flattering fit of his trousers. A slow, dirty grin spread across his face. “The better question, Mr Stone,” he said, his voice deep and silky, “is what I could do for  _ you." _

“Oh, really,” Stone said, lifting one eyebrow but not looking away from William’s midsection. “Frank, I had no idea you were getting me a present. And it’s not even my birthday. How thoughtful.” Frank started to bluster, but Stone cut him off with a flick of one hand. “All right, then, Billy, why don’t you come join us?” With a nod of his head, he indicated the space next to him, a narrow space under Stone’s outstretched arm.

Martha swallowed down her bile.

William stepped around the table and slipped into the booth, giving Stone a slow blink of thanks and still avoiding Martha’s eyes entirely. The cocktail waitress walked by and Stone snapped his fingers so loudly they all jumped. “Hey, sweetie,” he said. “How about something for my new best friend?”

William met the disdainful glare of the server with a lift of the chin and a haughty sniff. “Mineral water, please.”

“Oh, no,” Stone laughed. “Oh, no, no, no. That will never do, Billy.” To the waitress, he said, “Bring him a Long Island Iced Tea.”

William only blinked again and looked away.

Stone slid over a few inches, insinuating himself into William’s space. “So, Billy. Fred said you were from London. Just here on holiday?” He dropped his arm and turned his body just enough to block William off from the rest of them, nearly sealing him from their view. From Martha’s viewpoint, Stone’s position looked like a caricature of an embrace, with William huddled miserably in the middle of it. 

William swallowed. “Yes. I mean, no. I’m from London, but I live here now.”

“Do you now,” Stone purred. “What did you do in London?”

“I was a student. Chemistry.”

“Oh, chemistry,” Stone said, with just a hint of mockery in his tone. He gave Frank a sharp glance, and apparently what he saw there confirmed his suspicions. “I guess we know how you met Hudson, then.”

Frank opened his mouth to speak, but Martha beat him to it. “We’re old friends,” she lied. “I knew  _ William’s  _ family back home.”

Stone ignored her. “It’s better you’re here in the Florida sunlight.” He slipped his hand under the table. “What a waste, you locked away in a lab all the time. Much better to have you out where you can be seen. And appreciated.” William gave a little twitch, his eyes widening and then flicking toward the exit as Stone obviously, deliberately, started sliding his hand up William’s leg. 

The waitress approached their table, and William straightened and forced a smile, obviously desperate for the distraction. “Ah, here we are,” Stone said, taking the glass from her tray. “Try this. Relax, darling. You’re so tense.”

William forced a smile of thanks. He took a tiny sip and started to cough. Stone laughed outright. “First Long Island? They take some getting used to. Here.” He moved the drink closer. “Try again.”

William took another sip and set the glass down. “It’s quite good,” he said, strain in his voice.

“Yes,” Stone said, and moved in even closer. “You’ve got a little bit...here.” He reached his thumb across to make a swipe at an imaginary spot at the corner of William’s mouth. William leaned away before the hand reached him, but Stone was relentless and brushed the edge of his thumb along William’s lower lip. “Hey, do you know what they call me?”

William turned his head away briefly, moving his face out of reach, and Martha didn’t miss the flash of disgust. When he looked back, he only managed a faint half smile. “No idea.”

Stone hummed. “You’ll like this. It’s Rocky. Wanna know why?”

“Because of your name?”

“Nah,” Stone said, with a chuckle. “It’s because rocks are--”

“Heavy?” Martha interjected.

Stone shot a glare at her. “No, it’s because rocks are  _ hard." _ He turned back to William. “Get it? Rock...hard.”

“Oh,” William managed. “I...I see.”

Stone leaned in even more, his lips almost touching William’s ear. “It’s not really a seeing thing, though, is it. It’s more of a... _ feeling _ thing.” He reached for William’s wrist, wrapping his fingers easily around it, and started to pull William’s hand toward the edge of the table and his lap underneath.

Martha looked to Frank in disbelief. Had William been right before? Was her husband this ruthless? Would he really make this boy go through with this? She was relieved to see that Frank looked uncomfortable at the display in front of them, though he, too, avoided her eyes. He obviously wasn’t planning to do anything to stop this pathetic mockery of a seduction, and William would have to...he’d have to...

Martha had had enough. “I’ll go get us some biscuits,” she said, and stood up quickly and with more force than absolutely necessary. William’s drink teetered for a moment, and then, as Martha had intended, fell with a splash into Stone’s far too proximate crotch.

“Jesus fucking Christ!” Stone roared. He released William’s hand and grabbed at a serviette. “You great bloody cow!”

“I’ll get some club soda,” William said quickly, giving Martha a grateful look as he slid away from Stone and out of the booth. “Best thing for a stain. Be right back.”

As William hurried away, Frank turned on Martha, his eyes glowing with rage. “You...you…” He squeezed her arm so hard Martha was sure it would break. “Tell Mr Stone you’re sorry,” he said, forcing the words out between gritted teeth.

“Very well,” she answered, with ice in her voice. She turned to Stone. “I’m ever so sorry, Mr Stone,” she said in her crispest, coolest, most Westminster fuck-you accent. “I do so hope your lovely blazer has been spared any permanent damage.”

Stone stopped wiping at his trousers and narrowed his eyes at her for a long moment until he shifted his gaze to Frank. “Your wife does you no credit, Mr Hudson.” He dropped the serviette on the table. “I’ll just be going.”

“No!” Frank said, holding out the hand not currently holding Martha in place. “No, please. We’ll...we’ll make it up to you.”

_ “We’ll  _ make it up,” Stone said, a mocking echo. “Seems to me that your wife is the one in my debt.” He looked at Martha with a sneer. “It’s hard to imagine, but do you have any talents? That a man with common sense might be interested in, I mean.”

Frank’s grip tightened an impossible bit more, and Martha’s mind started racing. She could hardly offer Stone accounting assistance or help tidying up City Hall, and all things considered, this probably wasn’t the audience for explaining that it might be possible that she could see the future after eating an avocado. She felt her cheeks grow pink and hot and still nothing came to mind.

“She can dance,” Frank said suddenly. 

“Dance,” Stone echoed.

“Dance?” Martha asked, mystified.

“You mean, like ballet?” Stone asked, smirking. “Not much call for ballerinas at City Hall, Hudson.”

Frank shook his head. “No, like...like the girls here. You know?” He turned to Martha. “You remember. Like you used to dance for me.”

“In the _ bedroom _ ?” Martha hissed, leaning in close. “That was for...that was between us, Frank. For you. I never…” She motioned at the little stage at the end of the bar, where the dancer writhed on a silver pole. “I can’t do that kind of thing, I am  _ married." _

“Please, Martha,” Frank whispered back, and her arm would be bruised by the force of his grip, she knew it.

“Well, now.” Stone leaned back, observing her from over a wide, smirky grin. “It’s always the quiet ones, isn’t it. Go ahead, then, Mrs Hudson,” he said, accenting the ‘Mrs.’ “Dance your heart out. If you make fifty dollars in tips, you can give it to me and we’ll call it even.”

Martha blinked at Stone and then turned to Frank, who was vibrating in his chair. 

“I  _ can’t," _ she whispered.

He gave her arm one last little shake before letting it go. “Just do it,” he whispered, and stood, pulled her out of her chair and have her a little shove. "Go on.”

In a daze, made her way to the stage. The dancer, who went by Carmen, she vaguely remembered, was just finishing up her set with a mid-air split that earned her the howls and cheers of the few regulars who already lined the bar. 

Carmen stepped behind the curtain that led to the dressing room. Martha stepped up on the stage. Charlie, the D.J., a young man from Jamaica, looked at her with wide eyes. “Mrs H,” he stage-whispered, one hand over the mic. “What are you doing?”

She looked out along the bar, across the field of tables. It was a decent crowd for a weekday, there for the well whisky special and the club’s sad excuse for nachos. In the very back, she could see Frank, still and pale, and Stone, both arms spread up and out along the top of the bench, his teeth glowing in a feral grimace, the wet spot on his shirt still visible. She let her eyes drift along the back of the room, the posters and ugly fake bamboo wallpaper and glowing exit signs, until she found William, standing in the shadowy back corner, looking stricken. Their eyes met, and as she stood there, he slowly shook his head and held up a small bottle of club soda. “Don’t,” he mouthed, and took a half step into the light. 

He hadn’t left. He hadn’t run. He was so bloody  _ young, _ she thought, and he’d been so frightened, but here he was, offering to go back to that table, offering  _ himself, _ to spare her...what? A few minutes of embarrassment? Flashing her skivvies?

And just like that, she knew she could do this. She tipped her chin up sharply in William’s direction, urging him back into the corner. “All right, then,” she said, just loud enough to be heard at the D.J’s dais, “play Back in Black. And Charlie…”

She reached for the buttons on her blouse. “Turn it up.”

\---

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to 221bJen and Kedgeree11 (Kedgeree), my darlings, my betas. They keep me right.


End file.
